Page 57 of Highlander’s Hope

He shook off the surprise . He’d think about it later. He needed to focus on the battle now.

Malcolm had given him some Scottish armor, a leine croich—a long, pleated coat. Iron armor he’d seen in numerous historical action movies were too expensive for regular Scottish people. But Marjorie did have a pointed iron helmet for him and chainmail to protect his neck and shoulders. He felt like an extra on Braveheart, and Mel Gibson could jump out of a bush at any moment.

Except, down there, the men in the little clearing in the woods weren’t actors. Or doubles. Or extras. They were real warriors with real freaking sharp steel and years of battle experience. Which Marjorie didn’t have. Konnor did, but not with swords. He should insist she return to the castle before it was too late. Tamhas would help. He could tie her up and take her home by force. But she’d hate him. And he couldn’t stop a woman like Marjorie from doing whatever she’d set her mind to. All he needed to do now was keep her safe whatever it took. Even if it cost his life.

She was frowning, her lips tight, her chest rising and falling quickly under the leather armor she had on. She’d told him her father had splurged on it a while ago to protect her, and Konnor was glad for it.

What was she thinking? Was she actually ready to wound and kill after so many years of theory? He’d never forget the first person who’d died by his hand. He wished she wouldn’t carry that memory.

“How many do you think there are out there, Konnor?” she said.

“A couple of hundred, probably.”

Ten times as many as them. The enemy had two siege ladders, so they would move slowly tomorrow, especially after the rain.

“Aye, looks right to me,” she said. “Well, ‘tisna anything the Bruce would shy away from. He defeated armies of two thousand men with only eight hundred of his own. ‘Tis because he had the element of surprise and clever tactics.”

Dressed in her helmet and chainmail, she looked at him with such hardness in her eyes that she resembled the goddess of war herself.

“We’re Highlanders, and Loch Awe is our land. ‘Tis how we fight. Together with nature, nae against it. Using our heads and cunning and nae thinking with our dicks.”

Konnor’s jaw dropped to the ground. Marjorie was a badass.

But again, he already knew that.

She looked around at her troops, all of whom were watching her.

“Cruachan,” she said. Then a little louder. “Cruachan!”

The whole group echoed her, in a hushed, “Cruachan!”

Even though quiet, it rang through Konnor like the sound of a tuning fork in synch with to something deep in chest. A war cry, he realized.

They rose to a half crouch and all crept silently down towards the MacDougall camp. Konnor stood close to Marjorie, his sword at the ready.

They sped up as they got closer. And with the speed, something took them over. Konnor had never felt this in any of his experiences in Iraq. Like a common blanket of battle rage, one spirit of war united them. It settled in Konnor’s bones and muscles. With a final “Cruachan!” they smashed into the enemy camp like one wave.

Konnor made sure to stay close to Marjorie. And it was her kill that he saw first. A sentinel rose, astonished. He didn’t even have time to raise his sword before she pierced his chest with her claymore.

Her bared teeth glistened as she did it. Beautiful and terrifying, she didn’t stop. Her cat eyes shone with fury. His Celtic goddess of war, indeed.

Konnor met his first opponent—a man who had just taken his sword out, and Konnor, letting his body remember the intense training he’d got from Marjorie, swung his sword. He met the sharp resistance with a loud clang. But the man was weak, probably still from the sleep, or from the drink. Konnor swung again from the other side. Bang. Another block. With one leg too close to Konnor, he was in a weak position. Konnor thrust the sword and stabbed the man right in his stomach.

It took more strength than he’d realized, but the man clenched the blade with both hands and fell with a pained and a surprised expression. Konnor sighed. His first victim. Like every time, a pinch of guilt stabbed at him, but he didn’t have time to contemplate. Another man was already upon him.

It was a bloodbath. Many were killed in their sleep, many barely managed to take up their weapons. But soon, the remaining MacDougalls were awake and armed.

They came out of their tents roaring war cries. Marjorie crossed swords with another warrior. Konnor wanted to help, but he had his own battle to fight.

A big man came at him with a sword. The MacDougall thrust his sword at Konnor, who met the blade with his own. He took another swing, and iron clashed too close to Konnor’s throat. He stepped back. The man, sensing weakness in Konnor, came at him with a series of downward strikes. Konnor deflected them, his training coming in handy.

The man, sensing victory was close, raised his sword with both hands. Using a fraction of the moment when his opponent’s torso was exposed, Konnor thrust his sword into his enemy’s belly. The man went still, his claymore falling to the ground before he landed next to it.

Something sharp bit into Konnor’s shoulder, and he jumped back. Already another MacDougall, much younger and stronger, was at him. Konnor didn’t even have time to raise his sword. The enemy’s blade came at him, ready to pierce his heart.

Death looked into Konnor’s eyes.

But before the blade reached Konnor’s chest, the man stopped in his tracks and fell on the ground. Marjorie removed her bloody claymore from his back.